Yarak
by moondusted
Summary: Altaïr, in the beginning.


**07/09/2012 About the Title 'Yarak': **I took the term originally because it means the bird is eager and ready for the hunt. It is a genuine falconry term (although I'm not sure if it's applicable to eagles.) However, I'm grateful to _WamprickNyx_ for pointing out to me that 'Yarak' has also the problem of being easily mistaken for something _questionable_. We went through quite a few altenative terms together; however, each one seemed just slightly less strong than what I wanted. Therefore, I have decided to keep the title, it still fits far too perfectly.

Please be aware that **I do not mean to be offensive** in any shape or form. It really is just about a bird-of-prey wanting to taste some blood.

Again, a huge **thank you** to _WamprickNyx_ for bringing this to my attention and for being so immensely helpful and enlightening!

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**Warning:** No violence, no sex. Might be a touch risky if you really don't wanna know how the game ends and are good in drawing conclusions.  
**Sources: **The lions referenced at the end derive from:

"Best rear no lion in your state, 'tis true;  
But treat him like a lion if you do."

As quoted in Plutarch's Alcibiades. (Yes, may fandoms always match up like this. You are lucky I didn't get it into my mind to include Byron and Bowie references.)

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**YARAK**

**by moondusted  
**

Zubaidah lived with the houris in the garden, but she was not one of them. She was not beautiful, not ugly, in another world she might have been unremarkable. She was breathtaking. For the young novices, she was a surrogate mother without providing warmth or shelter and to Al'Mualim she was one of the few people whose opinion held any weight. She belonged to Masyaf, but never quite became part of its life. Zubaidah was not young and would never grow old and if she lived a hundred years. She appeared as unchangeable as a statue, a solid and elusive part of existence. When she died, it was as if part of the sky had been ripped out without anyone able to properly pinpoint what had gone missing, except that it left a void.

She had watched attentively as the Garden was opened to the young assassins, watched as they took their first steps into this faded mirror image of paradise.

On that day, she had walked silently to Al'Mualim's side.

"What do you think?" he asked, as if he cared for the answer, as if he was talking to his wife, or his sister or his mother or any of a thousand other women whose thought mattered to him.

"That one," she replied, her gaze coming to rest on a group of young men. The one she pointed out was unusually composed, clearly, profoundly unimpressed by the otherworldly beauty that surrounded him. He was faking, Zubaidah could tell, he was too young, too inexperienced to truly feel the way he behaved, but from just looking at him, you'd never know. He had all the grace of a predator, even so, sharp-eyed like an eagle with a demeanour at least as proud.

Zubaidah heard a quiet laugh from the man at her side. "I should not be surprised at you noticing. Naveed called him his best student. He has promise, that one. He will get far."

Zubaidah held her silence then, aware of the pride Al'Mualim felt at that boy. They were not like his children, those young assassins, they were his warriors, his soldiers, but he could still take joy in seeing their skills, from the moment when the fulfilled their potential. And this one; if he fulfilled even half of what his proud stance promised...

When Zubaidah spoke again, she did so in a very quiet voice, almost as if she was afraid of Al'Mualim's reaction.

Fear had nothing to do with it.

"He will never listen," she said. "Neither to an order, nor to advise."

She sensed rather than saw Al'Mualim's head snap around to look at her. Her own gate lingered still on the young assassin, eyes tracing the lithe, muscled form and the uncanny harmony of his movement, projecting in her own mind how much further he would evolve when this was where he began. He turned his head to reply to something said to him. Something haughty was in the way he held his head, scarcely hidden disdain curled his lips in place of a smile.

Zubaidah liked nothing about him, not the cocky expression in his face, nor especially the coldness in his eyes, nearly tangible even at the distance. He far exceeded the normal level of talent and he knew it.

"He cannot be shaped into anything but this," Zubaidah continued with the same even voice. "Nor will he ever be truly controlled. You might be able to break him, but what use will he be broken? However, you will never make him bend. One wrong step and he will be your undoing."

She felt Al'Mualim's displeasure, his eyes digging into her head from the side. "When did you become a soothsayer?" he asked, never bothering to hide his annoyance. They were long past that.

Zubaidah shook her head and moved her chin forward, indicating the young man. "Look at him, really look, and then tell me I'm wrong."

She shifted, as if to walk away but halted when she noticed that Al'Mualim had turned his attention back to the young man, contemplation had began invading his composed expression. It prompted her to stay, and then, to speak, lending sound to his thoughts. "None of he others move quite like him, none is a fast or as agile. Naveed has never taught a more devastating fighter. And none holds his head quite as high. I have one advise for you: Kill him now, while he hasn't quite learned the art of survival."

Al'Mualim snorted in derision, but Zubaidah knew him well enough to know he was considering her words. "He did nothing to warrant such a thing," he said. "I can't kill without reason."

"He will be your undoing," she said. "Isn't that reason enough?"

"It isn't. I will need him one day, all his gifts and talents and skills - if I destroy him now, what good would that do me?"

"He will not bent," she said again. "And if you break him... leave him be now and for too long, there will come a time when you can't even break him."

Al'Mualim shook his head. "How can you tell all that just looking?"

"Because I've seen so many of those young, young men come her. I know where they begin and I learn where they end. The real question, if I can this, why can't you? Can you look at him and not know the devastation he will bring?"

Al'Mualim took a breath before he answered. "I can. But then, that is why I won't kill him."

Zubaidah bent her head. Her point was made, she had no ambition beyond that, no reason to linger beyond this. She was compelled, though, despite herself, still looking at the promising young man, she added, "Keep in mind, an eagle is harder to train than a falcon and far stronger."

"You take him for an eagle?"

This time, she saw the bait, dangling right in front of her, heard the slight, dry croon of amusement in his tone. "You gave him his name. Could you truly take him for anything less?"

She saw the master of the assassins shake his head slowly, thoughtfully.

Regardless of what might be whispered behind her back, Zubaidah was neither a seer nor a witch. She did not know the future but there was something beyond talent here, beyond even the promise of danger, something colder and darker, infinitely cruel and ultimately destructive. She could almost taste it. She found no words with which she might be able to make Al'Mualim understand, if words even existed or were required. Perhaps he knew all this, perhaps he shared her feeling in that odd way that had always bound them.

Al'Mualim was raising an eagle and not a lion in their midst, but it would hardly make a difference if he wasn't going to treat him accordingly.

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**END**


End file.
